


Benjamin Button

by EleosEpistrophia



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Chocolate Box Treat, Cynical post-war John, M/M, Pre-Canon, a little hopeful, mentions of bullying, semi-angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28677672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EleosEpistrophia/pseuds/EleosEpistrophia
Summary: Jeffrey and John meet after the Battle of the Line, when Jeffrey's life is just beginning.
Relationships: John Sheridan/Jeffrey Sinclair
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Benjamin Button

**Author's Note:**

  * For [urisarang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/urisarang/gifts).



> The background of this fic is based on beta canon, wherein John bullied Sinclair mercilessly at the Academy.

John Sheridan felt itchy in his formal dress uniform, and looking around he could tell he wasn’t the only one. It was the final medal presentation for the heroes of the Earth-Minbari War, supposedly the last time that Earthforce would have to parade its few survivors on stage to boost the morale of a losing military. Peace was being brokered, a new pact being made.

No one trusted it.

The end of the war was too sudden, the reasons for the Minbari surrender shrouded in secrecy and left to conspiracy to fill in the gaps. Earthforce claimed that they had struck a crushing victory at the Battle of the Line, fought so hard that they had terrified the Minbari into giving up. Anyone who was on the front line knew it was complete bullshit, that there was no Hail Mary that could have turned the tide in Earth's favour, but it was a nice sound bite for the civilians. The speeches were hopeful, focusing on how Earthforce could once again focus on scientific exploration rather than defense, painted beautiful pictures of intergalactic peace and cooperation. But in the brief silences between speakers, when someone lost track of the line they were reading or took a moment to compose themselves, the inaudible roar of paranoia and fear was almost deafening. The entire event was a charade for the viewers at home, so they could finally get a good night’s sleep after three years of war. There was no respite here for those who fought, who knew too much and hoped too little.

John was looking forward to getting smashed tonight.

He sat in the audience, blindly smiling and clapping as soldier after soldier was handed medal after medal, waiting for the chance to break free and break loose. He had already been through this charade a few months back and was happy that it wasn’t him sweating under the searing lights and overbearing adoration. He remembered, as a cadet, sitting through these events and hoping that his day would come, that it would be him getting new pins and a new rank as platitudes rained down. That was back when he had been naive, idealistic. Back when he hadn’t realized the true cost of the scraps of cloth and a few kind words.

“Sinclair, Jeffrey.”

When he came across the stage John almost didn’t recognize him. He would have, if he hadn’t specifically turned off the broadcasts whenever Sinclair’s name had come up. The years had ridden him hard, his hair grey and the lines on his face deep and grave.

“For showing extraordinary courage during the Battle of the Line...”

Yet John thought it suited him. Sinclair had always been overly serious, an old man in a young body. Someone had once told him that Sinclair had been educated by Jesuits, and he supposed to trappings of Catholic guilt could have that sort of effect on a person. He still carried himself with that same quiet dignity, moving gently with a sort of masculine grace that drew the eye.

“For risking his life in service to the Earth Alliance...”

He had filled out since the Academy, broadened across the shoulders and chest. He looked solid now, grounded, the willow that bends but does not break. Yet there was still some ethereal quality to him, like he was just an uninterested observer of life, on his way to some place no one else could follow. John wondered if the war had been the exception.

“Earthforce presents this medal of honour.”

When Sinclair accepted his award his face briefly scanned the crowd. On the surface he looked serene, placid, but John knew better. There was something in his eyes that swallowed the light, some deeply concealed panic waiting to bubble to the surface. The familiarity of it hit John like a punch to the gut, memories and dreams long forgotten (ignored) slamming through his synapses. And then Sinclair was walking back across the stage and ‘Szardi, Thomas’ was called up, and John felt like he could breath again.

When they gave the last award to ‘Zandowsky, Pamela’ and ended the ceremony, John couldn’t run out of the auditorium fast enough.

“I can’t believe you fucked that up,” Evans groaned, slapping him on the back. “Seventh floor.” The lights on the panel blinked and the elevator came alive.

“Really, Sheridan,” Pinecott agreed. “That one was ready to blow you before you even said a word, and then you just give her the cold shoulder? Did the end of your three month marriage really fuck you up that badly?”

“Tenth floor,” John instructed, checking the light indicator to make sure the computer had heard the commands. “And I don’t see any of you try-hards going home with anyone tonight either.”

“Whiskey dick,” Evans said. “This wasn’t the night to hold back.”

“I’m getting a hooker,” Pinecott announced proudly.

“Bet that’s the only way you can get a woman to actually stay the night.” John chuckled and shook his head as Pinecott pulled his friend into a headlock. When the men didn't notice the doors opening, John cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen, this is your floor.” He had to hold the doors while they maneuvered around. 

“Take it easy Sheridan,” came from the blond mop under Pinecott’s armpit.

“Same to you both.” They wandered down the hall a little bit, more leaning on each other for support than actually fighting, and the elevator doors slid shut. John let out a deep breath, glad to finally be alone. Despite his cynicism he had been looking forward to this evening, excited to catch up with those who had survived and throw himself into the conviviality of a world excited to simply be alive. He wound up not enjoying a minute of it, plastering on the same fake grin he had worn at the ceremony as he pretended to be excited about the next bar, and the one after. The alcohol somehow only made it worse and the memories had come swirling up, vibrant and violently insistent on John’s full attention. He was too old to resent the night for not living up to his expectations, but there was a wistfulness all the same. It all would have been O.K. if not for the charade of a medal ceremony, if not for the blatant lies about Earth's 'victory', if not for...

Jeffrey Sinclair.

He was at the end of the hallway, a statuesque picture of isolation as he gazed out of the window. Just like at the Academy he was out of place, choosing 3am sentry duty while the world celebrated without him. He knew that Sinclair must have heard the pneumatic hiss of elevator doors opening and the carpeted footsteps, but as always he was above earthly cares, off somewhere so far away that the Earth Alliance hadn’t mapped it yet. John could slip away. For a moment he considered it. Sinclair had haunted his night like an ancient specter unintentionally summoned, and John didn’t owe him any more of his time. He didn’t owe Sinclair _anything_. Yet if there was something the war had taught him, it was that true camaraderie didn't care for petty grudges, extended beyond some sort of 'tit for tat' accounting scheme of interpersonal relationships. Most importantly, there was some compelling honesty about a man who chose to be alone when others rejoiced, and Sinclair's solitary vigil was the most sincere homage to the end of the war John had seen. Approaching softly he took up the other half of the window, following Sinclair's line of sight to the city below.

“You ever miss Geneva?” he asked. Sinclair didn’t acknowledge his presence, stretched the silence for so long it became eerie, and for a moment John wondered if he had been mistaken. Perhaps Sinclair was flesh and blood, and _he_ was the spectre.

“Not usually,” Sinclair finally responded. “Although it is particularly beautiful tonight.” He was right – the city had outdone itself in celebration. There were holographic displays welcoming the heroes of the war, lights and decorations covering the city in cheerful bright colours. Performers were on every corner and there was a man in stilts, deftly jumping over the crowd while juggling helium filled warheads that he would make disappear every time he passed. Through the zero gravity bubble dome John could see people floating, swimming in the awkward way that untrained civilians do. Yet somehow their quiet hallway seemed more interesting, more deserving of the senses. The backwash of neon glow chiseled Sinclair's face into sharp edges and he smelt like gin and cedar, warm and inviting. John felt the familiar tug of Sinclair's gravity but resisted, knew that he'd only come burning in too fast and leave a pile of wreckage in his wake.

“You go out celebrating?” Sinclair shook his head.

“I’m not one for large parties.”

“C’mon. We’re celebrating the the world not ending. Even _you_ could stand to lighten up a little.” 

“I think this is just the beginning.” John had nothing to say to that, because he knew Sinclair was right but he was tired of thinking of tomorrow.

“So you holed yourself up and drank alone?” he said instead. 

“I don’t usually drink.” John wished he had a drink to help him get through this stilted conversation. Sinclair was shutting him out, which was to be expected, and the entire conversation reminded him of why Sinclair had driven him insane at the Academy. He was always so opaque, so calm while the rest of the cadets were full of testosterone and bravado and he had just wanted to see Sinclair _crack_. Then, when John had pushed him far enough, the moment hadn’t been anything close to gratifying.

“Congratulations on making it out.” 

“You too. The only win we had against the Minbari. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“They don’t let me forget it.” John agreed.

“You were always going to be a hot shot. Everyone knew it at the Academy.”

“I’ve changed since then.” It wasn’t supposed to be an apology, and it came out too defensively to be one. But all John could think about was that same panicked look in Sinclair’s eyes back at the Academy, and suddenly he _needed_ Sinclair to look at him, needed something to replace the haunting memory with. But it wasn't something that could be taken by force, and he didn't know how to ask.

“War has a way of changing a person,” Sinclair agreed.

“Does it? You’ve gone grey and gotten more wrinkled, but somehow you’re still the same,” John pointed out. Sinclair let out a small chuckle.

“No. Not the same.”

“How so?” John pressed.

“I don’t think you’d understand,” Sinclair said in his mysterious, morose way. John shrugged, rested his elbows on the window sill and watched a civilian flail helplessly in the zero gravity dome below.

“Try me.” There was a deep pause while Sinclair considered his challenge. John willed all the muscles in his body to stay slack, tried not to give his frustration physical form. Patience had never been one of his virtues, but sometimes he liked to pretend he was a better man than his history could attest to.

“I don’t know if you know, but at the Battle of the Line I blacked out while doing a suicide run into a Minbari cruiser.” Sinclair’s voice was slow, somehow an even deeper bass than it usual. “When I woke up it was a day later, and my ship had been off the radar for 24 hours. It didn’t collect any data, didn’t come up on sensors anywhere in the area.” John didn’t know that, and he just gave a hollow laugh.

“We were running around in state-of-the-art tin cans that hadn’t been tested by the end of the war. We’re lucky we made it out of those ships.”

“That’s what Earthforce said. Instrument malfunction.” Sinclair shook his head. “Since then I’ve been having these dreams, if you can call them that. I don't see anything - I'm surrounded by complete blackness. But I can sense that I'm trapped, that there's no way to get out. I can't move or scream. Then I wake up in a cold sweat. And they keep recurring. And the fact is that there are are 24 hours of my life that are missing.” John didn’t know what to say to that. There were always people on the front lines claiming fantastic stories about getting lost in space, meeting unidentified aliens, losing time and memory. Some of them were attention seekers, and some of them just lost their grip on reality after being on the frontier. But Sinclair had always avoided notoriety and he was too immutable to have lost his mind. The idea that he belonged to that third group of people – the ones who had genuinely experienced something that Earthforce couldn’t understand or explain – was too chilling for John to contemplate.

“Ever since that battle, I’ve felt different,” Sinclair continued. “Like I’m caught up in something much bigger than myself, than Earthforce, than the war. I think that in some ways, as the war is ending, my life is truly beginning.” If John were a more thoughtful person he would have nodded, said some vague words that could have been construed as comforting, and let Sinclair keep his dignity. Instead John snickered into the window, shaking his head and finally ( _finally_ ) Sinclair turned and fixed him with a sharp gaze.

“What?”

“You’re a Benjamin Button,” John laughed, because it was easier to mock Sinclair's newfound naïveté than digest than all of the things he didn't understand. “Here the rest of us are at the Academy, young and full of ourselves, thinking we’re gonna save Earth single-handedly and that we’re _special_ and _chosen_ and _the best of the best_. Meanwhile, you’re sitting in the corner reading Marcus Aurelius and saying shit like ‘I could die tomorrow, I must be a good man today’. Then, after the war when we all realize we’re just assholes for the meat grinder, you’ve found your destiny. It’s the funniest, most ironic fucking thing-” Anything else he would have said died in his throat when his gaze finally met Sinclair's. His eyes stole the light coming in from the window, black holes of panicked frustration waiting for that last straw to unleash. The air between them was charged, and John wondered if this time Sinclair might actually fight back, and maybe John deserved it, except that wasn't the Sinclair that he knew and _how had everything gone to shit so quickly?_

“I don’t know if it’s a good destiny.” Sinclair spoke slowly through a clenched jaw and the gravity around him seemed to increase, trying to pull John in for a crash landing.

“Well.” John steadied himself, looked out the window and swallowed the last of his laughter under a cough. Once he had watched a technician disarm a bomb. While everyone on board had started nervously recording their last will and testaments, she had approached the device with a calm ennui, like perhaps if it couldn't pick up on her anxiety it might be lulled into dormancy. Sinclair didn't feel so different. “If it is destiny, can it be bad? If it’s just showing up where you’re supposed to and playing the part you’re supposed to play, I don’t think you can qualify that as bad or good. It just… is.” There was a subtle shift. Sinclair's jaw softened and he swallowed, losing some of that gravity. He wasn't ready to completely let down his guard but some curiosity came into his gaze, like he was seeing John anew.

“Do you believe in destiny?”

“No. But you’re the one who was always reading about this kind of stuff. What do you think?”

“The Jesuits, like most Catholics, don’t believe in destiny. They taught that we had free will in all things, but that the only good use of it was to seek God's will for us.” John raised his eyebrows.

“It’s nice that the Jesuits believe that. What do _you_ believe?” Sinclair looked down, a small smile hovering on his lips.

“I’m still working it out.” The air between them was still charged, but with a lower, softer intensity, and for the first time John didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. So they simply shared the moment as the faint noises from Geneva filtered through the window. John smiled when he saw a civilian drone scoop up a plastic warhead in midair. The stilt walker panicked, dropped the remaining ones into the crowd as he gave a slow, cautious chase.

“So, us coming across each other here. Is that good?” Sinclair finally asked, elbow leaning on the edge of the window sill as he faced John. John mirrored the posture and shrugged.

“I don't know if it's good or bad. We had to run across each other at some point, especially now that Earthforce is running at half strength. Maybe it was just inevitable.”

"Some might say inevitability is as good as as destiny," Sinclair teased, and John laughed because he wouldn't have guessed that Sinclair had that kind of playfulness in him. But there was a lot he didn't know about Sinclair, and a lot more than he didn't understand. When Sinclair closed the gap and kissed him, John wanted to pretend he was surprised, but he really wasn’t. That, more than anything in his life, seemed inevitable.

“Come to my room,” Sinclair whispered into his ear, his hand curling gently around John’s hip. “We can have our own celebration.” John had a second where he wanted to blame the alcohol for the blood rushing into his groin, feign disinterest. But after his divorce, after being on the front line, John had lost interest in all the defense mechanisms he had wrapped himself in. So he put his hand on the small of Sinclair’s back and pressed them together, feeling hardness meet his own and delighting in the deep, breathless moan Sinclair rewarded him with.

“Show me the way.”

The sex they had was somewhere between the tenderness of love-making and the desperation of a random fuck. It was raw, releasing the tensions stored up from three years of a suicidal war. Sinclair’s voice, smooth and rolling, growled in his ear, pushing him faster and harder, and then again and again until his balls ached and he was a sweaty mess on the hotel bed. John doesn’t know if they were celebrating being alive or trying to kill each other, but either way couldn’t be displeased by the outcome. They didn’t talk much in the afterglow, but John couldn’t help but get in one final jib.

“After tonight, what’s next on your path of destiny?” Lying beside him, Sinclair breathing matched his own, still elevated but coming down.

“I don’t think I’ll know until it happens.” John smiled in the darkness, and for a moment he felt nothing but unbridled affection.

"For what it's worth, I hope it's good. I really do."

In the years that followed John’s dreams of Sinclair became both more erotic and terrifying. He didn’t dream of the man often, but every once in a while he found himself making love to someone who dissolved at the moment of orgasm, shattered into tiny pieces that floated into space to rejoin the universe. When he woke, heart beating erratically and hard as a rock, he couldn’t go to sleep until he satiated his anxiety. Sometimes Sinclair's name came up in a throwaway line on the news, sometimes an internal memo or a briefing would pinpoint his exact location. It comforted John for reasons he didn’t understand.

Then, eight years later while John was serving on the _Agamemnon_ , Sinclair’s face popped up in every broadcast and this time John watched them all. In a surprising move he had been chosen as commander for Babylon 5, a position that was so doomed to failure, so sure to be the front line of the next war, that every try-hard in Earthforce had been vying for it. The shock and resentment ran deep and hard. Despite being a hero of the Battle of the Line, Sinclair was effectively a nobody in organization filled with heroes who had better connections, more commendations, and higher ranks. People started talking, some just resentful at being passed over, some reigniting old anxieties about Minbari plots. John walked out when he heard the mutterings start, shut them down when they came up in conversation. He hadn't believed Sinclair in Geneva, still wasn't sold on the concept of destiny, but there was something so breathtakingly momentous about it all that he couldn't look away. On a selfish level, he wanted Sinclair to be right. If Sinclair had a destiny, then maybe there was a point to it all - to the war, to surviving, to whatever sort of life John was trying to piece together. But even if Sinclair was wrong - that they were all just random atoms vibrating in an apathetic universe, he knew that their paths would cross again. That, more than anything, seemed inevitable.


End file.
